


What's Rightfully Mine

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: A regrettable but necessary literary decision, Daddy Kink to the literal definition, Incest, Knife Play, M/M, Martin Whitly is a psychopath remember, Mentioned Gil/Malcolm, Mild Abuse Themes, Parent-Child Incest, Possessive!Martin, Scalpel Play, The Drugging of Mr David, jealous!martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: Martin has a visit with Malcolm. It doesn't start out the way he expected it.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	What's Rightfully Mine

**Author's Note:**

> More ideas for Possessive!Martin and I needed to write this. Thanks, PSon trash server, for being enablers. :) 
> 
> Mild Abuse Themes Include: Jealous behaviors, controlling ideology, hurting someone and then apologizing and promises, and a backhand.

Dr. Martin Whitly looked disdainfully down at the now sleeping body of Mr. David and sniffed delicately. It was necessary to drug his caretaker at Claremont, but he worried slightly that the dosage had been too high. He’ll check his vitals periodically but for now, that could wait- he could see the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest.

He had other matters to attend to.

He checked the clock in his luxurious cell. He had five minutes before Malcolm arrived. Oh good. He still had a modicum of time.

He rummaged around in Mr. David’s pockets until he found the keys. Finding the small, silver Smith and Wesson key, he began to work it into the cuffs.

They were double locked.

“Fuck,” Martin hissed as he turned the key one way, then the other a couple of times before the cuff on his right hand came loose. He removed it and switched to the other one. “Why do they double lock these?!”

He knew the answer, of course. It was a rhetorical question.

Free from his cuffs, he quickly removed the leather custody belt and tucked it, the cuffs, and Mr. David’s keys underneath his mattress. He checked the clock again.

Two minutes until Malcolm arrived.

He didn’t bother to move Mr. David- he was out of the way and hidden- as well hidden as one grown man could hide another, really. He crawled on top of his bunk and picked up a medical text to disguise his lack of restraints.

At precisely four o’clock, the guard knocked on the door.

“Dr. Whitly, your son is here to visit you,” he said. “Permission to let him in, Mr. David?”

“Mr. David is using the restroom right now,” Martin lied smoothly. “Something he ate, no doubt. Ah, Mr. David!” he called out, pretending to wait for an answer. “My son is here, is he allowed in?” Another pause as he pretended to listen for another answer. “He said yes.”

The guard must’ve been either new or tired, because he didn’t ask for Mr. David to come speak to him. Martin was counting on that. The door opened and Malcolm came in, looking all for the world tired, stressed, and with his usual thoughtful expression. Today he wore a white collared shirt with a dark grey sweater vest and dark grey slacks. His usual black overcoat and winter white scarf accompanied him, and he had a strawberry lollipop in his mouth.

The door closed behind Malcolm and Martin slowly closed his book and stood up. “My boy,” he said affectionately, spreading his arms wide.

Malcolm took a step back. “You’re uncuffed,” he noted.

“I am, Malcolm,” he agreed, walking towards Malcolm. “Why do you back up from me? Are you afraid of me?”

“No, just wary,” Malcolm said, drawing the lollipop out of his mouth.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Malcolm,” Martin promised. He held out his right hand. “I’ll even shake on it.”

In Martin’s left hand, he slowly shimmied the scalpel that he had managed to conceal from Mr. David into his hand, still keeping it hidden. Malcolm didn’t need to know about it. Yet.

Malcolm looked at Martin’s hand, then into his earnest eyes. Dark blue eyes searched for deception.

Martin patiently waited. He knew that deep down, Malcolm would always trust him. Malcolm would consent, however unwillingly or with any sort of trepidation, to whatever Martin wanted him to do because he _trusted_ him.

_Like father, like son._

Slowly, Malcolm extended his own right hand out and the warm palm met Martin’s to shake. “If you say so.”

“I promise.” Martin shook Malcolm’s hand and noticed something around Malcolm’s wrist. He tugged his son closer, pulling the sleeves of his coat and shirt back to reveal more.

There was bruising around Malcolm’s wrist.

“Who dare laid a hand on my boy?” Martin asked softly, in a deadly voice. Malcolm was _his._

Malcolm didn’t reply, just tried to tug his hand out of Martin’s grasp.

“Answer me, Malcolm,” Martin said sternly, holding on more firmly. “I’m not going to be mad, Malcolm. Just tell me who laid a hand on you.”

“What can you deduce?” Malcolm asked quietly.

Martin couldn’t help but smile at that. He liked it when Malcolm played games with him. The man who caught serial killers and the serial killer himself.

He brought Malcolm’s hand and wrist up closer to his eyes, looking carefully at the bruising as he turned it this way and that. “This was done with silk,” he noted. “A very nice silk, at that. Perhaps one of your scarves. It’s fairly recent, maybe a day or two old.” His eyes flickered up towards Malcolm’s face, reading the micro-expressions that flitted across the younger man’s face. “Or maybe not even that old. From this morning, then.” He returned his gaze to his wrist. “You tugged on them, certainly, but you weren’t trying to get away, were you? You were just struggling, _writhing_ in ecstasy.”

Jealousy burned in Martin’s veins, but he tampered it down. He’ll wait until he hears who did this to Malcolm before he allowed his emotions to get the better of him.

“How am I doing so far, my boy?” Martin asked.

“Good, with one wrong detail,” Malcolm said. “This wasn’t done with silk. It was done with hemp rope.”

“Aaahhh. I suppose if I were to strip you down, I’d find this all over your body,” Martin said in a tone that was approving and disapproving at the same time. Approving, because seeing Malcolm tied up in shibari would be a beautiful sight, and his son would look _exquisite_ in it. Disapproving, because it was his job to give Malcolm the pleasure, the ecstasy, the _praise_ that he deserved.

“That would be correct,” Malcolm said.

Martin considered it for a few moments, observing the bruising from the rope left behind on Malcolm’s skin before raising his eyes, his gaze burning with a chaotic need to repossess what he felt- what he _knew-_ was rightfully his. “Lieutenant Arroyo,” he growled softly.

Malcolm at least had the good decency to look sheepish, a light blush rising to his cheeks. And that was all the confirmation that Martin needed to get his blood boiling. How _dare_ that man touch what was his?

Martin couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, backhanding Malcolm easily. Malcolm’s head bounced back from the slap and he stared at his father as red blossomed across his face where Martin’s knuckles met his face.

“Malcolm Winston Whitly,” Martin growled, seeing Malcolm flinch from his _proper_ last name. “How many times do I have to tell you this? I don’t care who you fuck. You can fuck your sister for all I care. As long as you don’t-“ He yanked Malcolm closer by his arm. “-Fuck-” He used his other hand (after pocketing the scalpel) to yank on Malcolm’s hair. “-Lieutenant Gil Arroyo.”

Malcolm fell to his knees and grabbed ahold of Martin’s arm, whimpering. “Daddy, please,” he whined. “You’re hurting me. You promised me that you wouldn’t.”

And so Martin did. And if it was one person he swore to not break promises to, it was Malcolm. He looked down at Malcolm, who flinched from him and looked away.

He crouched down and brought Malcolm in close. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he whispered softly. The Surgeon brushed a gentle hand through Malcolm’s hair, making a face internally at the amount of gel he could feel in it. “I’m so sorry, Malcolm. I just got upset at the thought of Lt. Arroyo touching you like that.”

“I said he could,” Malcolm mumbled, nosing into his father.

“I know you did, but he knows that you’re mine,” Martin murmured back. “He knows better. You’re learning. It’s different.”

Malcolm sniffled and Martin continued to gently run his fingers through Malcolm’s hair, removing the gel keeping it the way he usually had it and messing it up.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Malcolm mumbled after a time.

“You’re perfectly fine, my boy,” Martin murmured. “How about I make it up to you? What would you like, my boy?”

Malcolm hummed softly, nestling more into Martin’s embrace as he calmed. Martin let him think, never stopping his hand from caressing Malcolm’s hair.

“Can you trace your scalpel across the bruises? Lightly, but enough that they leave lines?” Malcolm asked. “Please?”

 _A reminder of whom he belongs to._ “That sounds good, my boy, but how did you know about the scalpel?” he asked. He hadn’t shown it to Malcolm.

Malcolm gave him a look of _seriously, dad?_ He held it up between them. “It was poking me in the thigh,” he explained.

Martin smirked and patted Malcolm’s cheek tenderly, kissing where his backhand had landed. “Get undressed for me, Malcolm, and let me remind you of who you _truly_ belong to.” He gently pried the scalpel out of Malcolm’s hand as the younger Whitly’s eyes lit up, happy that he had appeased the jealous beast inside of Martin.

Malcolm didn’t know that he was going to be leaving Claremont with a limp, and Martin was okay with that. Malcolm didn’t need to know everything right away. It would take thoroughly claiming Malcolm for the beast to be satisfied, before he knew that the only name Malcolm would know for a while whenever he took himself in hand was _Daddy_ and not _Gil._

Malcolm got undressed, having neatly folded everything and was now laying on Martin’s bed. Martin took a moment to admire his son’s lithe body, covered in soft bruising from the rope and struggling. It was apparent that Lt. Arroyo knew what he was doing, and while that did soothe Martin’s wounded pride a little bit, he still hated the man for it.

Malcolm had left his boxers on, an indication that Lt. Arroyo had not used the rope on his most private area, and that was fine with Martin. He could easily get Malcolm off without removing them. Removal can come later- when it was time to do the final claiming.

_Like father, like son._

“Where did he start, my boy?” Martin asked, letting the scalpel twirl between his fingers.

“Here,” Malcolm said, pointing to the inside of his left wrist.

“How did he have you?” Martin asked.

Malcolm flipped over onto his stomach. He tucked his knees underneath of him and spread them slightly, just enough to expose his innermost place.

Martin licked his lips as he sat down on the bunk next to his son, still twirling the scalpel between his fingers. Gently, he lifted Malcolm’s left arm and set the tip of the scalpel firmly against the inside part of his wrist.

They both waited, Martin to see if his son would struggle and Malcolm to see if his father would go back on his word and make him victim number 24. When it felt good, when it felt _right,_ Martin started to trace around the bruising of Malcolm’s wrist, smiling as he heard the soft little whimpers as raised skin came to life within the bruising. He wasn’t going to draw blood- not this time, but Martin knew how to create cuts without drawing blood.

He was The Surgeon, after all.

With each trace of the bruising, with each whimpered plea of _more_ from Malcolm, with each passing moment, Martin felt himself calm down from his earlier irritation and jealousy. He allowed Malcolm to rut against his bed, relishing the thought of going to bed that night with the scents of Malcolm and sex to accompany him.

And as he calmed down, he started to praise Malcolm. How good he was being for his Daddy, how beautiful he looked with his bruising and cuts, how loyal and devoted to Martin he was. He soothed him, telling him that his anger earlier wasn’t at Malcolm per se, but at Gil Arroyo for touching him and the whole situation in general. He apologized, saying he didn’t mean to hurt Malcolm, that he would never intentionally hurt Malcolm.

Malcolm ate it up, whimpering into Martin’s pillow, clenching the sheets with his fists, gasping whenever Martin hit a sensitive spot. Tension seeped out of his body with each word of praise, with each positive affirmation that Martin still loved him, still cared for him, even after all this. He swore he could’ve heard him weep when Martin reassured his son that it wasn’t even him that he was mad at, just Arroyo and the situation.

“That’s it, I’ve got you, my boy,” Martin whispered softly. “Let go for me, I’ll be here to catch you.”

Malcolm gave a soft sob as the final cut was made and Martin sat back to look over his handiwork. Malcolm was now a beautiful, writhing mess on his bed, skin flushed red in needy arousal and from the abuse that it had suffered in the past 24 hours.

“Why don’t you cum for me, my boy,” Martin murmured, “and then Daddy will fuck you.”

Malcolm whined and rutted harder against the bed, and Martin smirked.

“That’s my boy. Who do you belong to you?”

“You, Daddy.”

“Very good. Cum.”

And as Malcolm threw his head back and gave a near howl of pleasure as he spilled into his boxers, the Surgeon gave a sinister smile.

Malcolm Bright was wholly his. The world just didn’t know how far the man who called himself Bright had plunged into darkness.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell
> 
> Twitter: @Alendra_Dragon
> 
> TikTok: @officerlucifer
> 
> Comments and Kudos are Shiny!!


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